In the great balancing act of life, deep sorrows often surface in times of greatest joy. In a year full of hope, promise and pleasures (not the least of which has been assembling this modest piece of work) I have lost two of the best friends one could ever hope to have, Richard Lerner, who died on June 26, and Cyndy Kolnick, who died on July 17.
I met Richard twelve years ago when he worked the night shift at the answering service charged with the wearisome task of answering my phone. I would call in late at night for my messages. "This is 347," I'd say, and invariably spend an hour or so on the phone with Richard. For years afterwards, and even a few days before he died, he would occasionally call me "347." Richard, always quick to spot a nuance, was wildly intrigued by my friends, my business affairs and my lifestyle. He loved good food, good company and unbridled laughter; long before we ever met in the flesh, we were friends and allies.
We finally met, and I began to cook for him, a pleasure I maintained until days before his death. When I announced, ten years ago that I was about to embark on a career in catering, Richard harrangued everyone he knew until they hired me for all their catering needs. Often he would come and work with me, lending his own epicurean touch and gracious presence to my staff. Almost invariably, in the last frantic moments before we left for the job site, Richard would yank open the silverware drawer too hard, and it would fall, scattering flatware for 36 all over the kitchen. Horror-stricken and speechless, he would look balefully at me and say, "Oh, P." Precious minutes were lost while I indulged in Italianate screaming; minutes later we were laughing once again.
Richard was a consummate host and partygiver, and in this he was perfectly complemented by his artist lover, Eric Feighner; their house radiates with color, warmth and whimsy and Eric's garden has a visual delight in every nook and cranny. I spent the 4th of July there whenever I could, celebrating our independence. Last year's invitation said, "This is a party about love and mutual respect"; Richard's last word was "hello."
A few weeks after Richard died, I spent an evening playing cards with some friends; at the end of the game, I found that three cards had fallen under my chair at some point during the game. I picked them up and turned them over: three, four, seven. Richard was saying hello.
Cyndy was another person I knew for a long time before we actually met; our mutual friend Danise had told me for years that I must meet her, that I would love her. We met once briefly before Danise left San Francisco ten years ago, but only in passing. Then, a few years later, one of my housmates invited her to a party at our house. Our eyes met across the kitchen; "I know you," she said.
My housemate had met Cyndy through a professional organization she started to help fledgling tech writers get work. Unsentimental, and blessed with a cranky sense of humor, Cyndy was not given to verbal displays of affection. She showed her great heart and appreciation for life by helping people in significant ways. She taught me everything I know about computers; she taught me how to say "no." She had some kind of genius for practical problem-solving; it was a mental exercise she enjoyed, but never more than in the service of a friend. When I proposed that we build a wind sculpture for a festival in the Nevada desert, we spent months figuring out what to build, and it was she who inadvertently provided the answer when she showed me a book of poems she had written together with a friend: "Travels By Motorized Brass Bed."
We built a four-poster canopy bed on wheels, and Cyndy figured out how, with chicken wire, PVC pipe and cloth. It was Cyndy who drove our committee of four to the Black Rock, on the far side of nowhere, who had a primo tent for four, with air mattresses, lanterns, stoves and everything. When I needed to fly to Los Angeles to cater a party, Cyndy came with me, arranged the flights, filled her luggage with trays and pastry tubes and ice molds, and did the prep. When I said I wanted to go on a group expedition to tour the Oakland sewers in the dead of night in formal dress and rubber boots, Cyndy let me, in the scarier moments, cling in terror to her arm while she videotaped the event. I was never able to devise an adventure that daunted her, but even if it had, she would have done it for me.
In the days following Cyndy's death, I found a line in a letter Proust wrote to the society poet Anna de Noailles, which brought Cyndy and Richard forcibly to mind. Illness, he wrote, is "the sagging of the body under the weight of an excessively great soul."